


Nocturne

by notjodieyet



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Mentioned Bill Potts, Referenced Time War (Doctor Who), disgusting university students, eyebrow possum!doctor, nardole appears and is immediately told to go away again; which is probably the story of his life, nardole: man or egg? you decide, university students causing fuss and bother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26531755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjodieyet/pseuds/notjodieyet
Summary: “I’ll be back in a minute or two, I’m sure.”“You’re just going to let me burn to a crisp, then?”---The fire alarm goes off, and Missy insists to be taken outside. The Doctor deals with a smidge of Time War-based trauma. Feat. Gratuitous Flirting, and a bit of bickering, like any good old married couple.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Missy
Comments: 19
Kudos: 54





	Nocturne

The Doctor was sitting with his back leaned against the Vault door, grading quizzes, squinting at incomprehensible handwriting, when the lights went off. And on again. The alarm began to blare and a bolt of panic flashed through his chest, cutting off his breaths for a moment or two (not nearly long enough for his chest to burn from his respiratory bypass, thank God). His fingers went slack. The quiz he’d been examining, on frogs and worldwide creational myths, fluttered to the ground. 

He claimed, sometimes, that he remembered every bit of the war he’d fought in, and he meant mostly the countless atrocities performed by his own hand, but he meant the rest of it too. The tang of Gallifreyan blood no matter where he went, or the scent of disinfectant that lingered on his clothes and refused to let go, or the wicked nausea he woke up with for months until he got used to it all, or the way a planet looked when it died.

The alarms, though — he hadn’t remembered the alarms until they woke him up again.

They didn’t trick him. The Doctor liked to think he was difficult to trick, although he knew certain people would disagree. ( _“Shiny and dumb and all,”_ Missy had said once, over a steaming cup of chamomile tea. _“Who is that? John Mulaney or what’s-her-name?”_ ) (She’d beaten him at chess a moment afterward). They might have tricked him, if he’d been asleep, but the joke was on a hypothetical other person because the Doctor had almost stopped sleeping entirely. 

They _did_ startle him quite a bit. More than he’d like to admit. It wasn’t the first time the university fire alarms had been activated. It wasn’t even the first time they’d been activated in the past _month_. They’d been set off by a student smoking weed inside, and by somebody’s candles, and then somebody’s oil diffuser. The Doctor was of the opinion that none of those items were strictly essential, especially not with the fuss and bother that the alarms brought about, but university students did what university students were prone to do: start fuss and bother.

“What’s the racket?” asked Missy. She had, previously, been sitting behind the door and making occasional, bland conversation, but her voice had taken on a startled, unsure coloring. He blinked a few times at the door in surprise — Missy was hardly ever startled _or_ unsure. 

The Doctor stood, and assessed the situation with military-quick precision: “Fire alarm,” he grunted. It didn’t exactly take a genius. He bent over, picking up the quiz from the ground and stuffing it in his pocket before grinding the heels of his palms into his ears for good measure. It did nothing to prevent the alarm’s shrieks from drilling into his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his hands in defeat. “An accident, probably.” 

“And you’re _leaving_?”

“I’d hate to lose this body in a freak university fire.” He’d snapped into an old, unfamiliar version of him with the alarms and he tried to remind himself who he was. A different man. A different sort of person altogether. He told himself: the alarms don’t sound the same as the ones in the war. He told himself: we’re okay, _she’s_ okay, I’m okay. But now he couldn’t help but remember them, their incessant warnings, the rushing about of Time Lords in swooshing crimson robes… “I’ll be back in a minute or two, I’m sure.”

“You’re just going to let me burn to a crisp, then?”

The Doctor sighed and pressed his palm to the Vault door. It was cool to the touch (focus on _that_ , Doctor). “I’m not letting you out, Missy, if that’s what you’re asking.” The flashing was beginning to strain his eyes, and he rubbed at them with the back of his other hand. 

“How kind of you.” 

“It’s not about kindness.”

He could hear Missy’s frown in her words. “The building’s going to go up in flames, and me along with it. Your best enemy, defeated by… what did you call it? A freak university fire?” She clicked her tongue. “Impersonal, even for you.” 

Something in the back of his mind — whatever logical part still remained that was untouched by fear and the alarm’s wailing — insisted this was a bad idea. The Doctor had always been a bit of a sap, though, and it had always been his downfall. (At least according to Missy).

“Fine,” he said. “You’re going back in afterwards.” And he opened the door. 

At two in the morning, Missy’s hair was wild and undone, her makeup long washed off, her brows furrowed. She was wearing only an old white shirt stolen from one of the Doctor’s past selves that reached down to her knees, and fluffy fuchsia slippers. A streak of blue nail polish was smeared down her left index finger, the same color splattered on the knuckle of her right thumb. She clicked her tongue and looped her arm through the Doctor’s. “I’ll be good,” she promised. 

The Doctor didn’t believe her.

* * *

Missy took a long breath of air as soon as they stepped outside, as if she was savoring the faint scent of takeout and gasoline. “I missed this,” she murmured in the Doctor’s ear, pressing up against him, her hand resting on the small of his back. He would’ve flinched away if it were anyone else. As it was, he merely considered drawing her closer. 

“The screaming alarm? The hordes of sleep-deprived adolescents?” His eyes flicked towards the sky, obscured with a blanket of dark grey clouds. “The complete and utter lack of stars?” Truthfully, he would have liked Missy to see the stars. They would have made her smile. “The puddle over there of…” The Doctor leaned down, grimaced, and decided it would be best not to sniff it too closely. “Take your bets.”

“Alcohol,” said Missy airily.

The Doctor had been assuming something more along the lines of urine. “Taste it and find out.” 

Missy declined, choosing instead to lean her head against the Doctor’s shoulder. She yawned. “Where’s your little egg-man, by the way? Burning up somewhere inside? Did he short-circuit and start the fire?” Missy waved a vague hand around in an indecipherable gesture. “Terrible engineering, Doctor. I would’ve thought you’d know better, of all people.”

The Doctor didn’t dignify that with a response. 

Missy frowned. “It’s _very_ cold out here. I think you’d be better off letting me burn up.” She trailed a finger up his spine, let her hand slide down to his waist instead of returning to his back. “Do you think my next self should have brown eyes? You never did mention my eyes, Doctor.”

“Your eyes?”

Missy shifted her head off his shoulder to turn her Carolina-blue gaze directly on him. “I thought you’d like them.”

“More or less.”

“ _More or less,_ ” Missy scoffed to herself. 

“More or less,” the Doctor repeated, his mind only half focused on their banter. Where in Dante’s nine circles of Hell _had_ Nardole gone off to, anyway? He could very well be alright. He could very well be safe in the TARDIS, but Missy had made him nervous. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud. That was what Missy did — that was what Missy relished in doing. Getting in his head. Making him nervous. The blaring siren wasn’t helping either. 

A girl flicked her cigarette butt onto the ground and blew smoke from her cherry-red lips. Someone behind the Doctor was singing something from an opera he’d seen in the past, but he couldn’t remember what it was. (The alarm was blaring, it was blaring, it was so loud. He tried to focus on everything else. He tried to focus.) A boy beside them spat a globule of mucus onto the ground. A student complained about how god-awfully late it was, a pedantic friend corrected her _(“It’s actually early.”)_

And the alarm kept going. The Doctor was _sure_ it should be off by now, _sure_ whatever tense fear that had suddenly afflicted him should simply cease to course through his veins, _sure_ that he should be entirely and perfectly fine. (But he wasn’t.) 

Missy’s fingernails dug into his shoulder, and the Doctor recoiled. The sharp pain was enough to root him to the moment, at least. Remind him where he was. “Isn’t that Humpty Dumpty over there?” she hissed, stepping away from him the barest minimum to stab an aggressive finger at Nardole, who was idling away from the crowd, hopping from foot to foot.

The Doctor shook Missy away, thought better of it, interlaced their fingers, tugged her over to egg-man — to _Nardole_ , who did a double take as he spotted them. “There you are,” he said gruffly. “Missy thought you were busy being burned alive.”

“‘Alive’ is quite an assumption,” Missy murmured, and popped her lips. “I didn’t mean it.” 

Nardole gaped. He managed a “But _she!_ ” and then a “Sir!” before a proper, “She _really_ shouldn’t be out here, you know!”

Missy gasped in faux-offense, clapping her hand to her mouth. “How impolite. Doctor, pummel him for me.” 

“I will not,” said the Doctor.

“A little punch. For my honor?” Missy could not have more obviously been drooling to watch the Doctor snap, slip into unprompted violence for her sake. Maybe another day. (Definitely _not_ another day). 

“You’ve not got any, Prince Zuko.” And to Nardole, almost helplessly: “You didn’t want her burnt to a crisp, now, did you?” It was a mirror of her earlier words. He was too tired to remember how exactly they matched. 

Nardole’s mouth flapped again. “It’s fireproof,” he said. “It’s _fireproof,_ sir, the Vault is fireproof.”

The Doctor felt a little stupid. Of course the Vault was fireproof — he’d insisted upon the addition himself, all those years ago. “Well,” he said defensively, struggling to recall a coherent thought process against the persistent noise of the alarms. “She needs some enrichment.”

Missy tugged her hand out of his. “I’m not a zoo animal.” 

“She should go back inside,” said Nardole. He looked her over, his eyes lingering clinically on the hem of her shirt on her knees. The Doctor thought anyone else would’ve shown at least a hint of desire, but not Nardole. Never Nardole, not when it came to Missy. The Doctor supposed it meant he at least took his job seriously. “She’s hardly dressed for this kind of chill.” 

“You humans freeze so easily,” Missy said. “Look at me. I’m not running off. If I _wanted_ to be gone, dear, I’d be gone.” She attempted to comb her unkempt hair with her fingers. A valiant effort, but a futile one, as it sprung back into its original shape immediately. 

“I guess that’s true,” Nardole conceded.

“Let my Doctor show me off. He’s hardly got anything to brag about with his _usual_ paramours these days.” Missy gave up on her hair and began to brush invisible dust off the front of her nightshirt, angling her hips, posing for nobody. 

“I—”

Missy winked. “Stop wearing red. Red’s not your color, dear.”

The Doctor had the distinct feeling of witnessing a conversation that should have been kept private, like a toddler accidentally eavesdropping on his parents as they discussed Christmas presents. “Nardole…” There had to be some good reason he could send Nardole away. A headache was pressing up against the back of his eyes, (for God’s sake, why wasn’t that racket gone?) and Missy’s voice was grating, and Nardole was making her more irritable, and she was squeakier when she was irritated. “Go see why they haven’t turned off the alarm yet. I’ll keep an eye on our friend.” 

“Sir,” Nardole started, gearing up to argue. 

“Go!”

Nardole nodded and dashed off, his run faintly resembling a haphazard waddle. ( _Why hadn’t Bill ever made fun of_ his _running?_ , the Doctor grumbled internally). 

“You know,” said Missy to the Doctor the moment Nardole was gone, “I know you have absolutely zero self-awareness, because you’re a sack of half-dead possums who bought eyebrows off the black market, but your attractive female companion has been drawing a _wee_ bit of attention.”

“My _what_?” the Doctor sputtered. After all the time they’d spent together — their almost-rivalry, their almost-romance, their almost-friendship — Missy had all but lost the ability to make him blush. He found his cheeks warming against the breeze anyway. “Who? _Female companion_? What?” The Doctor glanced around, on the off-chance Bill had appeared beside them without warning. 

Missy sighed, leaned in, brushed her lips against his cheekbone. The whisper of warmth was more than welcome against the nighttime breeze. “Me, you sack of half-dead eyebrow possums.” The Doctor let her lean closer and wondered which of them she thought she was benefitting. 

Her weight against him was familiar, comforting, grounding — something he could focus on instead of the alarms. “I don't mind a little attention.” (Why weren’t they off by now? What was Nardole up to?) He pursed his lips, tried to find something to talk about. “You should have put on trousers before you left.”

“And deprive the outside world of my lovely legs?” Missy extended one, to admire it, and the Doctor couldn’t help but marvel at the gentle curve and delicate bone structure of her ankles. Damned Time Lord biological preferences and their damned effect on his coherent thoughts. (He’d never understood why Gallifreyan evolution favored ankles and collarbones, like some kind of organic Victorian kink). 

“You’re shivering, Missy.” The Doctor glanced around and pulled Missy to a patch of grass, sat her down, and shrugged off his overcoat. She opened her mouth to protest, but he pressed a finger to her lips before she could say a word, and draped his coat over her. 

Missy smiled and tugged it around her. Her real smiles — not her mocking, sinister, evil ones — were truly a sight to behold, he considered. Sixty something years guarding the Vault had been entirely worth it just for a couple of genuine smiles. The noise of the alarms seemed to fade away in comparison. Missy fiddled with a button, and, refusing to meet the Doctor’s eyes, muttered, “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” The Doctor sat down beside her, tossing his arm around her. “Who would I be if I didn’t treat my… _attractive female companion_ … appropriately when she was cold?”

“You’d be a bit of an arsehole, honestly.” She looked so small in his clothing, the cut too big for her shoulders, the sleeves too big for her wrists. Small and _sharp_ , he reminded himself. 

“See. I didn’t want to be a bit of an arsehole.” 

“You didn’t want to see me cold.” She angled her face towards him and kissed at the air dramatically. “And they say chivalry is dead!”

The Doctor laughed, and in the distance the fire alarm stopped. He let out an involuntary sigh of relief. “Enjoyed your time in the real world, then?”

“Somewhat.” Missy flopped over to rest her head on the Doctor’s lap, reaching up to play with a grey curl of his hair. He grinned down at her. “Next time,” she mused, “I’d like some sunshine. It’ll be good for my skin. I’ll wear a summer dress.” 

“There won’t be a next time,” said the Doctor. “Nardole will have my head.”

Missy didn’t reply for a minute, and her hand dropped away from his face to curl by her side. “Yes. Of course. _Nardole._ ” She shifted, sitting up, scooting away from the Doctor. “How could I forget?” She squirmed out of the Doctor’s jacket and tossed it at him. “Nardole,” she said again, and the Doctor couldn’t help but notice the helplessness in her voice. 

“Oh, don’t start this.”

“Take me back to my sorrowful imprisonment, Doctor.”

The Doctor reached out to her and ran the pad of his thumb across her glorious cheekbones. (That damned evolutionary preference again). “I’ll bring you a particle accelerator tomorrow morning,” he breathed, like it was some kind of grand romantic gesture instead of a terrible mistake. “And more tea.”

“I don’t need more tea,” Missy said snippishly. She swatted the Doctor away and stood up, her shoulders hunching around her ears, holding out a hand. From anyone else, the gesture would be welcoming. “Come along and lock me up.”

The Doctor should have said something. He could have very well said something. He said nothing instead, and took Missy’s hand, and walked with her back into his office. “I have chocolate bars in my desk,” he said, as a peace offering. A way to prevent the inevitable for a few moments more. 

“Dark?”

“Milk.”

“No, thank you.”

“I have dark as well, I think,” he said, adjusting his jacket, which now smelled like nutmeg and Missy’s horrid new peach perfume. 

“No, thank you,” Missy said again, and the Doctor wondered what the point in asking was if she was just going to deny either option. “I’m tired, Doctor.” 

He nodded. “Down we go, then.” 

“Wait.” Missy stepped towards him, her hands hovering a bare inch above his chest, the motions of a clear expert at skillfully switching between ordinary conversation and soap-level melodrama. “The alarm.”

“It’s gone.” He resolved to ask Nardole if he’d actually _done_ anything, or if he’d just wandered off to give them some space. The Doctor flung around with both arms like a second-rate magician. “Ta-da! And the lights are steady, too. No more migraines.” 

“The noise spooked me a bit, is all. It’s nothing.” 

The Doctor leaned down and kissed her forehead. He knew exactly what she was trying to do. He couldn’t deny he’d thought about it once or twice while they were idling outside. “You can’t sleep in the TARDIS with me.”

“I know.” Missy glanced away. “Nardole…”

“Nardole wouldn’t notice. Not if I didn’t want him to.” 

“Then…”

The Doctor _knew_ this was a bad idea. They’d made a rule: no waking up together. The Doctor wouldn’t spend the night in the Vault; Missy wouldn’t spend the night in the TARDIS. There was too much opportunity for tenderness, for walls falling, for hostility to melt away entirely. (Not to mention Missy’s _clinging_ ). 

“You have to be gone by seven AM at the latest,” warned the Doctor. “And you can’t run off.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The Doctor grasped Missy’s jaw and tilted it up towards him, pressing their mouths together in a passionless agreement. A handshake of a kiss, he supposed. He moved to step away and she wrapped her arms around him, pulled him closer, back towards the doors of the TARDIS. Missy giggled softly against his lips. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Seven AM.”

“Seven AM.”

* * *

The Doctor drifted to sleep with her face pressed into his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his thigh, his hands tangled in her hair, their breaths and heartbeats synchronized. “Good night, Mistress,” he said, and she hummed a tuneless response, shifting to look up at him through half-lidded eyes. He kissed her again. 

“Good night, Doctor.”

**Author's Note:**

> title & the most amusing tags suggested by lizzi/@petercapaldish on tumblr, who is a magnificent beta and a wonderful person!!!!


End file.
